Page 64 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 31

Nate

It's just the two of us as we sit down at a dining table downstairs that could easily seat a dozen people, if not more. It's a massive piece of wood furniture, varnished in a dark mahogany hue, and looking so sturdy and heavy that it looks impossible to move. How the hell anyone ever got it in here, I have no idea. I've been in this mansion many times, but never paid much attention to the details of its interior before.

Not until today, that is, when my eyes follow her curious glances as I lead her through the house and into the dining room.

The dining room is on the other end of the mansion, far away from Big George's office. It's so big and has such high ceilings that it deserves the name hall instead of room. Two floor-length windows on two walls let in the remaining light of the day, the last violet and dark orange stripes of the setting sun marking the horizon far away.

I know the guys will all come together to eat later, but I didn't want to overtax her with a get-together of this magnitude on her very first night in this place. She's barely gotten used to the presence of just Daveed and Mike, but a dinner with almost a dozen brutes of the Covey would be a challenge on a different level—one that she doesn't have to face. From what I gathered earlier, it wouldn't even help if Lailah was able to join us at the dinner table. She showcases the same unyielding roughness that comes with being a long-standing Covey member, the very same attitude that's so unsettling for Malia to absorb in the first place.

Big George has always emphasized maintaining his big boss image and delivering an image to the Covey that reflects our alleged standing in this region. We're a fairly successful crime syndicate all right, but even the size of this mansion, the expensive cars and the pricey decor don't belie the fact that we're still highly dependent on the local mafia's benevolence.

This house is way too big for George and his second—or third—and current wife, but it's never just them living here. They always give refuge to guests, friends, or associates of the Covey. Anybody who isn't our enemy and needs a safe place to stay for a while is welcome.

That's why no one even bats an eye at the idea of hosting Malia here, a civilian and complete stranger to the Covey. To most, she is nothing more than a pawn in Mission Onyx—a majorly important pawn, but still a pawn.

Her eyes widen when the meal is brought to us, and I get to enjoy the sight of one of those rare smiles on her face, an expression that she hasn't displayed often since we met. Of course, I can't blame her for that. George hired a private cook when he instated this mansion as his new home and the Covey's headquarters. The man is an excellent chef, still young and impressionable, which is why it was easy to lure him into this job with a hefty sum of money that ensured he would keep his mouth shut.

"Real food," she sighs, her eyes trained on the simple meal plated in front of us—pork tenders with potatoes and greens. It's nothing fancy, but I share her sentiment. For the past couple of days, it has been nothing but sandwiches and instant ramen. Even a simple dish such as this tops that by far.

"Enjoy," I say, sounding a bit too patronizing for my own taste. For a moment there, it seems I've tricked myself into believing that this is just a regular dinner date and I'm the nice guy paying the bill.

She doesn't deign my invitation with a response, but starts digging in to the freshly prepared food right away. I can see the wave of relief and satisfaction traveling through her entire body as her shoulders sink and her spine curves slightly. She closes her eyes while chewing, looking so deeply content and blissful that it only highlights how miserable she must have been all this time.

I hate this.

I hate feeling guilty for what I'm doing to her. Because why the fuck should I care? She's a means to an end, a desperate attempt and our last chance to get this done. If I am concerned about her wellbeing, it should only be in regards to her worth for the mission, and nothing else.

But I know it's more than that.

And it fucking worries me.

"It's so good!" she praises, her eyes beaming as she takes another bite. "Who knew the mafia could cook!"

"We're not the mafia," I insist. "We're-"

"The Covey, yeah, I know," she interrupts. "It's all the same to me."

"I'm sure my family would agree with you," I say, trying my best to hide how much her words irritate me. "But let me tell you that it couldn't be further from the truth."

Her eyebrows arch up in surprise, but not for the reason I first thought, as it turns out a moment later when she speaks.

"Your family knows that you're working for the Covey?"

Her question makes it sound as if this was an actual career, something that you can choose just like you can choose to become a bank teller or an airline stewardess.

"They know I'm not part of their world anymore," I tell her, deliberately choosing vague words. "But in my eyes, I'm not any more of a criminal than they are."

"I thought your brother took over the family business," she retorts. "Lailah didn't tell me exactly what that business was, but she said it was huge, closer to a business empire."

Her probing look adds a silent question to her words. She's digging for more, hoping that I will let her in on the details that Lailah left out. But she knows that I'm unwilling to reply if she just spits out the questions instead of detouring to lure the answers out of me without ever actually asking.

She's smart, I'll give her that.

"It's impossible to keep a clean slate when you're running a large business like ours," I tell her. "Next to the fact that corrupt behavior is recompensed, it's also easy to fall for the seduction of instant wealth, achieved in an allegedly easy way by mixing up with the mafia. My brother fell victim to that idiotic idea, even though I warned him."

"You warned him?" she interjects. "But you're working with them, too!"

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